Free Slime by John Halkin

trying awkwardly to dry himself one-handed when the night nurse came in to see what was wrong. Briskly she rubbed him down, helped him into clean pyjamas and made sure he was safely back in bed again before she left.
    In the morning, the Welsh doctor stubbornly refused even to think of letting Tim out of hospital again.
    ‘Indulged you yesterday, didn’t I, an’ we know what happened!’ He placed a cold stethoscope against Tim’s chest, then shook his head in disbelief. ‘Sounds healthy enough, but we’ll take a look under those bandages to see how the hand’s getting on, shall we? You’re too precious, so I’m told. Not that I’ve ever been one for television myself. With all these pretty nurses swooning over you, I don’t know why you want to leave.’
    ‘I need the fresh air,’ Tim tried.
    ‘Then you can open the window. Plenty o’ sea breezes here, you know. Best hotel in town, this hospital – an’ you’ve been given the best room, for reasons which are quite beyond my understanding. Your poor friend now, he’s in a bad way. It’s touch an’ go if he’ll ever talk again.’
    ‘Stroke?’
    ‘That’s right. You can thank your lucky stars you’re in good health, all things considered. Your hand’s doing nicely. Good red flesh. It’ll heal in no time if you’re sensible. Try to rush things, though, an’…’ He shrugged.
    ‘OK, one more day,’ Tim conceded, abandoning the struggle. ‘But best hotel or not, I’m checking out tomorrow first thing.’
    A chuckle. ‘Let’s wait an’ see, shall we? Tomorrow isanother day, or so I’m told.’
    ‘My wife is expecting me.’
    ‘No arguing then, is there?’ At the door, he paused. ‘You must tell me more about these jellyfish when we’ve a moment. I’ve been hearing rumours.’
    At about the time that conversation was taking place, David Jones was wading into the sea at Bedruthan Steps in Cornwall for his daily swim.
    It was not a warm day. The breeze was sharp and dark rain clouds were scurrying across the sky. Yet, hail or shine, he’d never miss his regular dip, not even in the depths of winter.
    Save for the war years when he’d been in the army, most of his working life had been spent in London, going into the bank every morning, rising slowly but steadily through the grades until he finished up as manager of a large suburban branch. They had lived frugally, he and his wife Colleen, saving up for the cottage in Cornwall to which they eventually retired.
    Five years ago, that was. Colleen had died last year shortly before Christmas, leaving him on his own. A quick illness, no longer than three or four days, and then she’d gone. Now he went in for his swim alone, but always thinking of her.
    The waves lapped at his knees. He paused for a second, gazing out at that familiar bay, and then plunged forward, taking to the sea with an easy familiarity. The cold shock of the water was bracing, firming up his lean, muscular body. It had been Colleen who had taught him to swim in the first year of their marriage. Sea nymph, he’d called her: she’d grown up in a little fishing village in southern Ireland and had swum before she could walk.
    He must have been in the water for five minutes or more when he felt a strange tickling sensation against hisstomach.
    Seaweed, he thought. He changed direction, striking out towards the headland on the right.
    But the seaweed, if that’s what it was, went with him. It sent prickles across his skin, like pins and needles. Riding the waves, he turned over on his back to take a look.
    ‘Oh dear…’ The gleaming jellyfish spread across his stomach. It was pink and red, a spotted pattern, with a deep red splodge in the centre. In all his years, this had never happened before. He didn’t exactly know what to do, and with Colleen not being there to advise him…
    Slowly he allowed his body to sink, hoping the sea would wash the thing away; or that it would take off of its own accord. He didn’t intend